Under the Viper
by Eldar
Summary: Harry’s trial at the Ministry before his Fifth-Year ended differently than it did Cannon wise. He was exiled from England and is forbidden to return, now, fifteen years later, he’s doing just that… with a contingent of hired wands to boot.
1. Prelude

Under The Raven Under The Viper

By: _Eldar_

**Summary:** Harry's trial at the Ministry before his Fifth-Year ended differently than it did Cannon wise. He was exiled from England and is forbidden to return, now, fifteen years later, he's doing just that… with a contingent of hired wands to boot.

"_Hermione,_

_How are you? I know, I know, not the question you'd rather I start with, but it seemed the best one to use right now. I'm doing pretty well right now, I'm currently staying in an inn in France –yes, I know, real descriptive! It goes by the name of _The Acorn and Oak_ and the owner has the quirkiest sense of humor..._

_However, that doesn't really matter right now: I'm hale, hearty, living, and not in a bad condition. Yes, I know, you worry. I haven't been involved in any fights since that one in Paris. But, you really can't call that a fight, can you? I mean, the guy was trying to steal all my money!_

_Well, he's in the hospital right now, and doesn't remember the fight, so it's all water under the bridge, now._

_Funny enough, The Trial's been on my mind lately, or should I call it The Farce?"_

-Excerpt from a letter sent from Harry Potter to Hermione Granger, dated 24 August 1995

**Prelude: **_The Farce_

* * *

"Let the Accused be brought in." Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge called from his seat with the Wizengamot in Courtroom Seventeen within the bowels of the Ministry of Magic.

As soon as his words reverberated across the expansive room, two guards at the entrance of the Courtroom bowed stiffly at the waist, opened the doors and marched outside. Seconds later, they returned with an exhausted Harry James Potter (Formerly of Number Four Privet Drive) suspended between the two of them. "The Accused does come before you." One of the guards responded ritualistically.

"The Accused is in the needing of a chair," Fudge responded as the rules of the court required him to. "It is my duty of make a chair of use for the Accused." He waved his hand airily and two Dementors came into the Courtroom, dragging a large chair made out of an unidentifiable material between the two of them. "The Accused is allowed to sit in the provided chair." He said once the Dementors were finished.

The two guards dragged the limp body and rested it in the chair, as soon as all of the living flesh was in contact with the chair, manacles suddenly appeared around the wrists and ankles of Harry's limp form.

"This court is now called to be in session." Fudge said. "Let there be no doubt that the Accused has committed the crime that he stands accused of… he admitted enough under Vertiserum earlier today."

Fudge then looked down at his notes, as if to reassure himself of some esoteric fact. "Today being the twelfth of August of the Year Nineteen Hundred and Ninety Five, The Minister of Magic has moved this Disciplinary Hearing into a full criminal trial." Fudge then looked around at the assembled members of the Wizengamot, "let the record show that there were no votes opposed."

At that moment, a man stood up, his purple robes contrasting with the Silver "W" marked in the center of them. "Now, see here, Fudge!" He shouted, his voice carrying across the Courtroom, unseen to anybody within the Courtroom, Harry stirred at the voice. "I may not have raised any problems when you motioned earlier to try a boy for Underage Magic in this Courtroom, nor when you proposed using the entire Wizengamot… but this… this is preposterous!" He sputtered angrily. "I-"

That was as far as he got, for, at the moment the man paused, Fudge gestured at the guard who had been watching the scene play out with rapt attention. "Arrest him." He said commandingly, "for he is being a disruption within a Courtroom that is in session."

The Two Guards bowed stiffly at the waist towards Fudge again before marching up to where the Wizengamot Judges were sitting. "Judge Agnue," The one who had spoken earlier said again. "It would be best for all if you would follow me, sir." His partner adjusted his grip on his wand, allowing it to point threateningly at the aforementioned Judge.

"Investigators are Cornelius Oswald Fudge, Minister of Magic; Dolores Jane Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister; and Reginald Chambers Borgin, Senior Special Investigator for the Minister." Fudge continued on as if no interruption had occurred. "The Court Scribe is Percieval Ignatius Weasley." Fudge looked around, before opening his mouth again, "If that is all?" A pause. "Then, let the trial commence."

A black robed man swept into the Courtroom, his robes swirling behind him as if there was a gust of wind following him. "Could you please state your name for the Court Record, Mister Potter?"

"Objection: Supposition." A shrill voice broke out of the Courtroom's door. All the heads in the Courtroom turned to look at the newcomer, Harry's gray face grinned a little at the sight of Hermione Granger, one of his best friends, the only person he felt he could count on to get his out of this mess.

"I do not believe you were invited to this Court, miss?" Fudge said, searching for a name.

"Granger, Hermione Jane." Hermione said, keeping her voice level and loud enough for the Scribe to catch. "I am here because Albus Dumbledore was going to act in the capacity of Harry's defense, but was unable to make it do to a scheduling issue, so, instead, he sent me."

Fudge was apparently uncomfortable with the arrangement, but then nodded to the Scribe, "Defense of the Witness: Hermione Jane Granger." He cleared his throat before continuing. "So, Miss Granger, how is it that the Consul's question calls for Supposition?"

Hermione opened her mouth before closing it again, with her cheeks flaming he opened her mouth again to retort. "Sir, the Question itself is inherently flawed, it asks for Ha- the Accused, to state his name while giving him a name.!"

"Miss Granger, that is an example of a Leading Question… Objection Overruled." Fudge said. "You may continue Consul."

As soon as the Consul was to begin again, Harry opened his mouth and spoke, his voice rough. "Harry James Potter." He grated out. "Profession: Student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

"What, Mister Potter, do you stand accused for?"

"I stand accused of the _Misuse_ of Underage Magic." Harry grated out.

"Please Describe the law –as you know it- regarding the Use of Underage Magic."

And so it continued, the Opposing Consul asking Harry questions, Harry would answer them, and Hermione would chime in anytime that she could think of a transgression on the part of the opposing consul.

The process went on for around an hour before Fudge called a recess. Following the declaration, Fudge got up along with the Wizengamot and the Black-robed man who had been questioning Harry, as one they got up and walked out the door, leaving Harry and Hermione alone.

"Oh, Harry." She said. "How do you always seem to find your way into these situations?"

Harry looked up at her. "Maybe God is Sadistic?" He offered humorlessly. "That, or I'm just here to suffer so other's don't." He took in a breath of air and then let it out seconds later. "So, Hermione, what do my chances look like?"

"Not good, Harry, not good at all." Hermione said. "I saw some people from Hogwarts on my way in… and, well, it looks like the Ministry is going to have them all testify against you. And, you're not going to like this, but its made up entirely out of Slytherins in our year: Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, Parkinson, Dravis… the whole lot of them are here!"

Harry looked pensive for a moment, then nodded to himself as if he had just reached a decision with himself. "Hermione, see what the Prosecution is willing to give in exchange for me to plea guilty right now." He saw the look in her eyes and used one of his rare bouts of logic. "If they've got the entire Slytherin class here, that means they're going for the jugular, Azkaban or worse, see if we could reduce the Sentence with the Prosecution." He nodded warmly at her, the best he could give in his situation.

Hermione turned away from Harry and walked out the door herself, looking every inch like a woman on a mission.

As she walked away, Harry seemed to deflate into himself with the air he breathed out. He suddenly gave a start when a hand was rested on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry that it had to come to this, Harry." A grandfatherly voice said from above his head, and, if he craned his neck, he could make out Dumbledore above him.

"Professor!" Harry said, but Dumbledore raised a finger and shook his head.

"Harry, I fear I'm not going to be your Professor much longer… not if the Ministry has their way." Dumbledore tried to smile comfortingly at Harry, but the effect was lost when he wouldn't meet Harry's eyes. "Harry, I'm not going to be able to explain everything right now, but take this and use it when the time seems right… you'll know when." Albus's face seemed troubled, but his voice didn't loose any of the urgency from it.

He handed Harry a glass ball that seemed to glow with some hidden inner light attached to a simple silver chain. Harry quickly hid it within the folds of his robes. And, not a moment too soon, once the ball and chain were within Harry's robes, Hermione walked back into the Courtroom, stopping in her tracks when she saw Dumbledore.

She lost her stunned state almost immediately and walked up to Harry, ignoring the Professor.

"How bad?" Harry asked, somehow managing a grim grin.

"Very bad." Hermione said succinctly. "The prosecution is willing to settle for your Exile from England, in exchange for a Guilty plea." Hermione bit her lip before continuing. "Harry… don't take it. With… with _you-know-who_ back, anywhere outside Hogwarts is going to be very dangerous. We can still win this case, and, if we do, than we'll, err, that is to say you, will be back in Hogwarts… where it's safe." She said in all in one breath, somehow.

"Hermione." Harry said, his voice still rough. "If the Prosecution is willing to throw a glass of water in with that deal… I'll… I'll take it."

Hermione's face fell as she regarded her best friend. "If that's how you want it," she said her voice sorrowful. "That's what will happen."

"Believe me, Hermione, that's not what I want, but it's the only way I can see for me to escape this with my sanity… and my life." He swallowed the lump that formed in his throat before continuing. "No slight on your skills, but this court is openly hostile towards me, and Fudge gave an order that I'm guilty, since I confessed under Vertiserum." He fought against the manacles on his wrists to try and comfort his friend, but gave up the venture as futile.

"Okay, Harry." Hermione said, her voice betraying how close to tears she really was. She then hugged him awkwardly in the chair before getting up to walk out the door.

"You'll watch over them, Professor?" Harry said to Dumbledore.

"I'll do my best." Dumbledore said, his grandfatherly voice dropping. "And, Harry, I believe that you have earned the right to call me Albus."

"Alright, Albus." The name felt odd on Harry's tongue. "Try and convince the Grangers to take a vacation out of country… a long one, possibly forever, with Voldemort back, well, the Muggle world isn't going to be as safe as it has been for the past fifteen years."

"And, what about Ronald?" Dumbledore asked politely.

"His whole family are magical, and they lived through the last uprising, they can do the same for this one." Harry's voice sounded confident, much more confident than he felt inside.

Dumbledore looked up as a gong was sounded to announce the reentry of the Wizengamot, Hermione and the Black Robed wizard also walked into the Courtroom. A smug, haughty expression on the Wizard's face, a defeated expression plastered on Hermione's. When the witch looked at him, her expression narrowed until her glare was focused on him, so intense that one could've sworn that there were sparks flying off her as she did so.

"This criminal trial is called back into session." Fudge said, looking down at his notes. "Is there anything either consul would wish to share with the Wizengamot?"

"Your honors," Hermione said before the other consul, her voice stating that she thought of the group as anything but. "The prosecution and I have to come an agreement that is in full accordance with the relevant laws." She ground out, apparently still frustrated with Harry for not taking her advice. "My client is to plead guilty to the count of Misuse of Underage Magic, and, in exchange, this court is to clear him of all other charges, and, because of the guilty plea, Exile him from England for an eternity."

Even as she said these words, it was known that that would not be the case, as in the old days, the Exile lasted only until a new ruler was in need of the Exiled's experience or knowledge. Or, in this case, the popularity.

"My college is correct." The black robed man said in a silky voice bowing towards Fudge.

"Very well." Fudge said. "The Wizengamot accepts your agreement and will now sentence.

"The Accused shall rise while We read the charge that you are found guilty of." Fudge said, adopting a self-important tone of voice. "We find you guilty of the charge of the Misuse of Underage Magic. All other charges against you are dropped. We hereby sentence you to be an Exile from England, if you are ever found within the boundaries of England henceforth, you will be killed on sight. You have two hours to make your way away from England, they start now."

Fudge then waved his hand and the gong banged again. "This trial is no concluded." Once the Wizengamot had risen from their chairs, the manacles disappeared from Harry's ankles and wrists.

Harry, finding himself unbound, immediately got out of the chair and stumbled over to Hermione, who looked like she was on the verge of tears. When Harry stumbled over, she quickly hugged him properly, crying harder than Harry thought the situation warranted.

"Where will you go?" Hermione said between tears.

"I don't know." Harry said. "I've heard that the Foreign Legion is a good option." Harry cracked a brief smile. "But, honestly, I have a feeling that I'll just drift about… I guess I'll try and see you sometime when you go out of the country… provided you ever leave here."

Hermione frowned. "Don't say that, Harry!" She said. "If you give me an address or some other location, I'll try and come to see you."

Harry smiled at his friend. "I'd like that." He said, "write down your proper address for me, please. I have a feeling that my using Wizard's Post will be frowned upon, being an Exile and all."

Hermione then let go of her friend to fetch some paper and pencil, and allowed Harry to lead her out of the Courtroom. When they walked out, Harry noticed Mister Weasley standing by the door, looking anxious.

"What happened? Dumbledore didn't say." He asked hurriedly.

"Guilty for Misuse of Underage Magic." Harry said simply. "In about two hours I'm to be exiled from England, forever." Harry's voice remained, somehow, steady as he spoke.

"How can you remain so calm?" Mister Weasley said shaking his head. "Well, I've got to drop you two off at Headquarters, so, come with me." He gestured to the two and walked away from the Courtroom. "You see, we've had another one of the bloody regretting toilets today, so its my turn to check into it and set it right. What? Did I say something funny?" He demanded as Harry suddenly started laughing from the stress of going through the trial.

"No, Mister Weasley, you didn't." Harry said, wiping his face with his sleeves. "But, I'd rather not go to Headquarters right now… could you drop us off at the Leaky Cauldron? I need to grab some things from Diagon Alley before leaving."

"What? Of course, Harry, of course I would." Mister Weasley said, apparently at a loss as for why. "But, why would you need to go to Diagon Alley if you're going to hide out in Headquarters?"

"What good would I be doing at Headquarters?" Harry said. "There is no way in Hell I'm going to hide in Headquarters until my exile is rescinded. If I do, I'd probably do something stupid, like escape from there in order to charge into an _Avada Kedava_ spell."

Mister Weasley paused for a moment before nodding and muttering something about how that made sense.

"Here, I'll drop you two off at Diagon Alley," Mister Weasley said, then, in an undertone. "Alastor will have my head for this."

* * *

"Harry," Mister Weasley said as they walked into the Leaky Cauldron. "If I don't see you again," he brushed a tear from his eye. "I just wanted you to know that Molly and I considered you a son of ours, even if you weren't of our blood."

Harry nodded, not daring to speak for fear of what he would say. Finally finding words, he spoke. "If I'm ever back here… however unlikely, I'll make sure to visit you and Missus Weasley." He didn't add the _even though you'll most likely be dead by then_ that he mentally added.

Shaking Mister Weasley's hand again, Harry turned around and walked further into the Leaky Cauldron, as Mister Weasley walked out.

"Afternoon, Tom." He said to the Barkeep, who nodded at him without really registering his presence.

The dining area of the Leaky Cauldron was as full as it usually was, however the looks that the crowd gave Harry were a world apart from the usual looks he received. After his Fourth Year he thought that he was impervious to the looks and mutterings of the crowds that believed he was slighting Cedric, or generally thought him disturbed. However, he was not prepared to deal with the leering smiles that the patrons gave him, the smiles that told him what they thought of him, and what he could do about it.

"So, Potter." A man's voice said from a table as he passed by. "Is it true that the Dark Lord murdered Diggory… or did you do it yourself?" The voice laughed cruelly as Harry stalked away, towards the alley.

Once within the alley, however, it just became worse and worse. All along the alley there was the insidious whispering that followed them, each one just a hair louder than the last until it sounded like shouting in Harry's ears. So, he was very relieved when he came to the front doors of Gringotts.

Harry opened the doors and strode into the bank, his posture almost imperious in nature. Harry noticed one of the bank teller's was available and he walked over to it, and was surprised to realize that he recognized the Goblin manning it.

"Griphook?" Harry asked, surprise written all over his features. "I'm sorry." He said once the Goblin looked at him with a stern disapproving look on his face, "but, I was surprised to realize that I recognized you. It won't happen again."

"No need, Mister Potter." Griphook said, for it was indeed he. "You seem to be a rarity among wizards, especially in the fact that you can recognize a lowly Goblin on sight."

Harry flushed and he couldn't help but stutter his request out. "I… I… I was wondering if Gringotts has any other locations in the world?" He asked timidly. "If not, I would like to know if you have any affiliates or other banks that you trust in the rest of the world?"

Griphook raised a bushy eyebrow at Harry before responding to his question. "We would not be that good of a bank if we only had a single location now, would we?" Griphook barked with laughter at the look on Harry's face. "We have several locations around the world. " Almost every major city in the world has a Gringotts location, even in the muggle world!" Griphook laughed again at the gobsmacked look on Harry's face. "Yes, we are involved in the muggle world, of course, they think the name is just a rich old codger's affection, instead of the name of the Goblin leader in the revolution of seven eighty five." Griphook smiled a predator's smile. "Yes, it _is_ amazing how ignorant wizards are."

"Would it be possible for me to access my funds while out of country without stepping on English soil?" Harry asked. "As you've probably heard already, I've been exiled, and it takes effect in…" He checked his watch. "About an hour or so."

Griphook looked at Harry oddly. "Why are you advertising the fact, Mister Potter?" He finally said after several moments. "And, why aren't you angrier about it?"

"Well," Harry said. "I'm not hanging a sign up that says I'm going to be exiled, and I trust you to be discrete with the fact." Harry missed the quick intake of breath from both Hermione and Griphook. "And, I am plenty angry about it, but acting angry won't help me with this, so I've settle to just seethe inside." Harry shrugged. "Anyway, could you give me a brochure that lists all your locations for me? I'm probably going to drift around, and I would like to be able to plan out my withdrawals."

Griphook produced a brochure from behind his teller's station and handed it to Harry. "This isn't just your everyday brochure, Mister Potter." The goblin stated as he handed it to Harry. "This brochure is magically altered so that it has every location Gringotts has built that still stands in it, along with any construction going on… at any time." Griphook smiled his predator's smile again. "And, finally, there's a mild tracking charm on it that directs you to the closest Gringotts location."

"Thank you Griphook." Harry said. "I would like to make a withdrawal before I leave though." Harry said. "Just for some spending money." He quickly added. "I would like a hundred galleons, and then… oh, five thousand Francs." Harry said, thinking about what was likely to happen in France.

Griphook bowed slightly before reaching down below his teller's station again and producing a small sack containing the hundred galleons Harry requested. He also wrote a quick note in Gobbleygook and handed it to Harry with some directions.

"Here," he said. "Take this note and give it to the third teller down at the counter to my left." He pointed the goblin out to Harry, who nodded for Griphook to continue. "He'll give you the Francs."

"Thank you Griphook." Harry said, he then searched his rather hazy memory of History of Magic before finding what he thought was the proper phrase. "May your ancestor's smile upon you." He said.

"It has been a long time since I heard a human use that phrase." Griphook replied. "Perhaps your History of Magic teacher isn't as worthless as every Hogwarts student that comes here thinks he is. Next."

Harry bowed to the goblin before walking over to the goblin that Griphook had pointed out, a goblin that looked like he had seen far too many winters.

"Uh… Sir?" Harry said to the goblin. "I was told to come over here in order to convert Magical currency into muggle currency?"

The ancient goblin stirred to life; he stretched out his arms before turning a sleepy eye upon Harry. "And, who exactly told you that I handle the magical to muggle currency transfers?" He demanded with a voice that sounded like sandpaper.

"Griphook, sir." Harry supplied.

"Griphook, eh?" The ancient goblin said. Then, after a moment's pause, he continued. "What are you needing in muggle currency?" He said politely.

In response, Harry handed the goblin the slip of paper that Griphook had handed him. The goblin looked at the note before angrily shoving a hand into his coat's pockets and extracting a pair of glasses that looked to be about as old as Hogwarts. The goblin extracted another piece of paper and started writing down some numbers and doing some math, however, since the numbers were not the Arabic numerals that most everybody knew, Harry wasn't able to follow the math that the goblin was doing.

After a few moments of the goblin doing the impossible math and Harry watching, the goblin nodded to himself and opened a drawer set in the desk he was using and extracted five thousand Francs in enough common denominations for Harry to be able to use the money without having to break up larger bills.

"Here you go." The goblin said in a surprisingly human manner. "Five thousand French Francs."

"Thank you," Harry said courteously. "And, may your ancestor's smile upon you."

"No, thank _you_, Mister Potter." The goblin said. "You've just done more for me than you can know." His words left Harry confused as the Goblin stood up from the desk and wandered deeper into the bank.

Harry took a look around the bank before walking out the door, and out of Gringotts, without looking back.

* * *

"This the place?" Harry asked Hermione as they both stood in front of an older-style house that looked like it had been built at least fifty years ago.

"Yep." Hermione said, "this is home." Her voice was excited, and her excitement was infectious; in the short trip to her house, Harry had become much more light hearted than he thought he would become.

"So, why are we coming here again?" Harry asked, he then continued on hurriedly as Hermione leveled an acid gaze on him. "Not that I mind meeting your parents or anything!" He raised his hands defensively. "It just seems… odd to be meeting with them before leaving the country."

"Harry." Hermione said softly. "You give us a location and time, and we'll be there."

Harry looked at his best friend in amazement. "You'd do that for me?" He said, amazed. "Why?"

Instead of answering, Hermione looked away, abashed. "Well, lets go in and introduce you already!" She said, covering the semi-awkward silence between the two.

"Alright!" Harry said. "Slave driver."

Hermione turned and glared at him.

"It's just a joke." He said feebly before walking up the stairs that led to the door, where Hermione rang the doorbell.

After a few minutes, the door was opened by a man whom Harry could only assume was Mister Granger; he had Hermione's brown hair, and her eye color, and, for some reason, he looked as much like his daughter any man could and still look like an actual man. "Mister Granger, presume?" Harry said, extending a hand to the man, who shook it in turn.

"Yes." Mister Granger replied. "And I imagine that you are the Harry Potter that my wife and I hear so much about in our daughter's letters?"

"Guilty." Harry said. Wincing after he said the word and how it fit into his life currently.

"If you'll excuse me, Mister Granger, I'm actually under a time constraint, so… if you'd let us in?" Harry said, hoping he didn't sound as rude as it sounded to him.

"Ah, of course." Mister Granger said. "That smarmy old coot got you on a short leash?" The words 'smarmy old coot' could only refer to Dumbledore.

"No, sir." Harry said. "I'm actually going to be… well, I'll let your daughter tell the story, she'll know best how to explain it."

And Harry followed the tow members of the family into the house and then, after removing their shoes, into the room that Harry could only assume was the family room. Sitting back in a chair that he was shooed into by Hermione, Harry listened to her tell the tale of what had unfolded in the past eight hours of his life.

"…And that's what's happened up to now." Hermione finished up fifteen minutes later. "The reason we're here is because I wanted Harry to meet you before going away, since I'm going to try to meet him if he can give me a location and date."

Mister Granger looked at his hands pensively before looking up at Harry and speaking. "So, you're going to be exiled from England, forever?" He said, incredulous. "That's… a huge throwback!" He exclaimed. "It's like your government is from the nine hundreds!"

"Mister Granger." Harry said seriously. "Most of the Magical World is stuck in the early years, most seem to hold a contempt for muggles that amazes me, the other's seem to think that Muggles going to the moon is a stupid idea and that anybody who claims otherwise is a liar." Harry took a deep breath before continuing.

"Besides, my exile is partly my fault, I told Hermione to take the deal…" Harry suddenly stood up and extended his hand to Mister Granger again. "Mister Granger, I'm thankful that you've allowed me to stop by for now, but I've got to be out of country very soon, and, well, its not the easiest thing to do."

Mister Granger nodded and shook Harrys hand and Harry left the room, and, later, the two in the Granger household could hear the door shut behind him.

"I hope that that kid keeps himself alive. He seems good enough." Mister Granger said after awhile. He then looked at his daughter before continuing. "So, what is it about the Magical world that you haven't told me?" He querried.

* * *

Harry found his way to the Chunnel station rather easily, he had some spare quid in his pocket and had flagged the nearest cab and had requested that as his destination. Once the cabby had dropped him off at the Chunnel station, Harry paid him and walked into the station proper.

Once inside the station, he was greeted with the sight of Dumbledore, Ron, his trunk, and Hedwig. Dumbledore and Ron were standing quite awkwardly in the entrance to the station, the trunk and owl cage in front of their feet.

"Harry." Dumbledore said in his grandfatherly voice. "Are you sure you won't reconsider my offer of living in Headquarters until we can get your name cleared?"

Harry struggled for a moment before answering. "I'm certain… Albus," he cracked a small grin when he used the Headmaster's name, partly at the fact that he –a fifteen year old boy was addressing the headmaster by name, but also due to Ron's expression. He looked like he was bursting to explode at Harry for addressing the Headmaster in such a familiar manner, but refrained from doing so, remembering the last time he'd opened his mouth without thinking.

"I'd rather live than survive." Harry said finally. "I also don't think I could stand to be in that house when Ron and Hermione leave for Hogwarts… and I don't follow." His voice nearly broke at the end, but he disguised it with a cough. "Yes, I'm certain, Albus. Hey, it's getting easier to say your name every minute." Harry joked, trying to lighten the mood that was setting in.

"In that case." Dumbledore said. "I'll leave you and Master Weasley alone until the train arrives. Here's your ticket, Harry… have a good life." The old man fumbled in his robes briefly before pulling out a slightly mangled ticket and handed it to Harry.

"Thank you, Albus." Harry said. "For… everything."

After an awkward moment, Dumbledore left the room and stood outside, leaving the two teens inside the station.

"So." Ron said thickly. "This is it. Somehow, I'd always thought that we'd be together until the end, it never even crossed my mind that you'd end up leaving on some trumped up charges."

"I didn't think that that would happen either, Ron." Harry agreed. "But… it did." His voice quickly became as thick as his best mate's, "listen, Ron." He said. "If things get really bad… well, he who fights but runs away lives to fight another day." He shrugged. "Don't be afraid to run away from England. And, if you can, bring Hermione with you."

"Mate." Ron said. "Most likely it would be her dragging me with her."

"True." Harry agreed. "She is rather… forceful."

A whistle somewhere in the station blew and the train sped into the station, slowing down and eventually coming to a full spot. "Ron," Harry said in a thick voice. "My train's here… I've got to be out of country soon."

"Yeah." Ron agreed absently.

Harry grabbed his best mate in a hug that lasted only a second. "Take care of Hermione for me." He said. "Make sure that any boyfriend of her's doesn't turn out to be a complete prick."

"Will do, Harry." Ron said. "Will do."

Stepping back, Harry surveyed the station yet again before grabbing his trunk and owl cage and stepping into the train.

Once inside the train, Harry found a compartment that was unoccupied and quickly claimed it as his own. He opened up his trunk and claimed a book on French linguistics that he sat on his seat before lifting his trunk up to the rack above his head. Shaking his head he looked out the window to see that the train was starting to move before turning his head to look at his book and he started to read.

Before he had the chance to get into his book and try to teach himself basic French in thirty minutes, his compartment door slid open and a woman who appeared to be in her fifties with a seeing eye dog walked in.

"Is this compartment empty?" She asked, looking at the wall opposite Harry.

"No." Harry said. "But, you're welcome to sit down." He refrained from gesturing at the seats.

"Thank you." The woman said in a younger voice… a voice that Harry could've sworn he'd heard before, but from a different woman's body.

"Wotcher, Harry." She said, her features morphing until they resembled the familiar pink-haired auror that Harry had met originally in his bedroom in Number Four what seemed like an eternity ago. "Dumbledore sent me and… _Snuffles_ in order to keep a watch over you." She shed the trench coat that she'd been wearing earlier and beneath it she was wearing typical muggle dress, a tee shirt and jeans, nothing fancy.

"Still riding herd on me, is he?" Harry muttered to himself. "Anyway, I'm glad to see a familiar face, well, two." He looked down at 'Snuffles' and affectionately messed up the dog's fur. "You wouldn't happen to know any French now, would you?"

"Actually," Tonks blushed. "I do. My mother never considered the possibility of a daughter of a black not knowing French and so sought to educate me." She grimaced at the memory. "Why?"

Harry quickly explained what he needed and quickly learned the phrases he'd need in the course of a day to get by for his first day in France. During the ride, he found that it was easier to speak to Tonks than he'd ever thought it was possible, but he supposed that the way his emotions were right now, he'd be able to open up to anybody who would've opened up that door.

Too soon, the ride was over, and Harry watched as Tonks assumed the form of the blind woman that she'd used earlier. She also put on the trenchcoat again and put a leash on 'Snuffles', who seemed to resist the idea.

Walking into the station, Harry breathed in the air, and it hit him.

He was no longer welcome at home. He couldn't ever return to English soil in his life.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tonks stumble and lose her grip on the leash, and 'Snuffles' came running towards him. Tonks shrugged and mouthed "_He's your problem now._" To Harry and walked behind a pillar.

A crack of disapparation told him that she'd left.

That was it. He was… exiled. And, for the first time in that whirlwind of a day it really caught up with him.

"What the fuck have I got myself involved in." He whispered to himself.

The pavement below his feet had no answer.

**A/N:** _Yes, yet another story. This one, hopefully, won't be abandoned like RtP was… I still can't think of how to string the words to make that story work anymore. So, if anybody wants RtP, please tell me, either through PM or a Review._

_This is my first shot at writing an "M" rated story, however there will not be many adult situations throughout the story, so it's going to be an "M" for language and gore._

**Story-6063 Words**


	2. Chapter One

Under the Viper Under the Viper

**You-Know-Who is You-Know-What**

**By:**_ Ida Kno_

_"IN A SURPRISING MOVE, You-Know-Who (If you don't see page D-3 of this issue) has proclaimed his return from the dead. This move was greeted with squeals of 'Impossible!' (Former Minister of Magic, Cornellius Fudge), 'Oh my God!' (Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Amelia Bones), 'It's about time you believed me!' (Head of Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office, Arthur Weasley), and 'Fuck!' (Unnamed Auror)._

_You-Know-Who proclaimed his return in the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic yesterday (12 July) at 22:21 by rescuing Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange; Lucius Malfoy; and Antonin Dolohov. The Lestranges were among the breakouts from Azkaban two years ago; Malfoy and Dolohov both pled not guilty by reason of Imperius in the Death Eater Trials of almost two decades ago._

_It should be noted that the Potter Trials of two years ago next month were brought upon by pressure from Malfoy, however it remains that Potter chose Exile over receiving the Wizengamot's verdict, so it remains that he is guilty of something._

In this reporter's opinion, The Ministry should be taking more active measures for the protection of the citizenry of Magical Britain instead of expanding the previously limited Hit-Wizards (Which was voted on by the Wizengamot at 23:45 and passed, 541-65) and issuing Care-Bulletin #113347 (Which was drafted by the DMLE Reservists at 23:12 and issued at 02:38 today). The main way to fight the Death Eaters, in this Reporter's opinion, is through the use of the Aurors, if we treat this like a criminal act, than surely this will be over sooner than if we use Hit-Wizards?"

**-Excerpt from the ****Daily Prophet****, dated Sunday, 13 July 1997**

Chapter One

_Fourteen Years Later_

The _Phoenix Nest_ was in a seedier part of Paris, and as such was a natural home for all sorts of people who weren't considered… desirable by any Government. In fact, half of the bar's patrons were wanted by the government for one thing or another, the other half didn't care.

Outside, the howling wind beat against the sign as the stranger passed by the bar, his dark cloak hid him from view and the hood kept his face in shadow. He turned at the bang of the sign against the wall of the bar and he seemed to read the sign. He, for it was most definitely a he, evidently saw something he liked as he turned to the side and opened the door, allowing some of the snow from outside in.

"Shut the goddamn door!" The barkeep yelled in French as the stranger walked in.

The stranger paused before shutting 'the goddamn door' for the barkeep and kicking snow off of his boots. Reaching down, his sleeve pulled up to reveal a leather gauntlet that looked like nothing short of nuclear fire would harm it in any manner.

After cursing several times in French, the stranger walked over to an unoccupied table and sat down lazily in one of the chairs, propping his feet on the table and pulling a pack of cigarettes from within his cloak. Lighting it with no apparent means, he pulled on it before calling out to the barkeep. "One bottle of scotch and a glass." His accent was almost a perfect Parisian accent and his French was flawless.

"Right away, sir." The barkeep said, glaring at the man like he'd committed a cardinal sin by propping his feet up on the table.

"I've got nothing but time." The stranger said.

As he spoke, one of the patrons' back's straightened up until it resembled nothing so much as a steel bar. Leaving some money on the bar, she turned and left hurriedly from the bar, running out into the blistering cold winds without a second thought.

A few moments of silence passed with the patrons of the bar staring at the stranger, and receiving the sensation that the stranger was doing the same. The monotony was finally broken when the barkeep appeared next to the stranger, holding the scotch and a generous cup. "Will that be all, sir?" The barkeep asked anxiously, trying to get out of the stranger's presence as quick as possible.

"No." The stranger said. "If you could get me an order of whatever the lunch special is, I'd appreciate it."

"At once." The barkeep said, relieved to get away, and he sped away, towards his bar, and took out a menu and tried to decide what the special was for that day.

The stranger lifted a lazy finger, and the bottle of scotch unsealed itself and then levitated so as to pour out a good serving of the drink into the cup the barkeep gave him. Then, the cup floated over to the stranger so that it was within an easy grasp. Lifting his hand, he grabbed it and took a drink after extinguishing his cigarette in the provided ashtray.

"Oh, and barkeep?" The man said, still in French.

"Yes?"

"Could you get me a copy of the paper… I seem to have left mine at home."

The barkeep barely missed a step as he set about cooking whatever he had decided what the special was. "Of course." He said, as if to think otherwise was a grave error. "I'll bring it with your food."

"Thank you." The stranger said.

Another patron at the bar, however, wasn't as composed as the barkeep and he bolt out of the bar, all decorum thrown to the winds as he tried to speed out of the bar as fast as possible.

As the door opened, an owl swooped through the door, a letter gripped firmly in its talons. The owl found the table that the stranger was seated at and landed on it, sticking out a talon as if to say _"Here, take it!"_ to the stranger, who laughed and did just that.

He ripped the letter open and looked down at it, and as he did so, his face became dark and… dangerous looking. He tore up the letter and, with a wave of his hand, caused the letter to combust. After a handful of seconds, the letter was just a pile of ashes that everybody in the bar seemed to avoid looking at as if it were evidence that the Devil himself was going to take over the world in an instant.

The barkeep appeared at the man's elbow bearing a old ceramic plate that held some food that was unidentifiable to the naked eye as well as a copy of the paper. The man picked up the paper and opened it up fully so that he could better read it.

Animosity Towards Potter is a Theme With the New Government in England

"TWO WEEKS AGO TODAY the English Minister of Magic, Rufus Scrimgour, was killed by a lone assassin. The entire magical world joined England in its grief at loosing one of the most respected members in the ever-lasting fight against The Dark. Yesterday at 23:51, I received an owl from a friend I have at the English Daily Prophet, which carried some shocking news.

_"It was Lord Voldemort who killed Scrimgour._

_"The reason this is shocking is because it was thought that the lone assassin was some mid-level Terrorist, or 'Death Eater' as they style themselves after the American Special Nacendent Army Forces Unit. The reason of Lord Voldemort handling this killing on his own was revealed today as he revealed himself to the populace of Wizarding England as their rightful Lord and Master._

_"Response from the English has been muted, everybody in England seems to have forgotten who Lord Voldemort was in command of during the twelve-year civil war that has shaken the very bones of everybody in England or who has friends or family there._

_"After the English Ministry of Magic urged the English Government to refuse visa to anybody coming into the country in 1998 in response to the Aurors' discovery that Lord Voldemort was doing extensive recruiting out of country, everybody in the English breathed a sigh of relief._

_"In the winter of '98, the English Ministry of Magic urged the English Government to make travel out of England illegal, the English played ball, and the law was passed quietly. Shortly thereafter, the world began to get an idea of what was going on in England as the refuges began to trickle into France and the United States of America, through haphazard methods that would make any sane person do the same._

_"The International response was quiet unrest, but nothing else. But, this is all ancient History to anybody whose been following this story. The amazing thing is that all over England, reports of starbursts and owls flying during the day have been flooding into the muggle news. Celebration on this level hasn't been seen since Lord Voldemort's first reign was stopped by Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived._

_"The first statement issued by the Voldemort Government was that 'Harry James Potter, if he is still alive, will be hunted by my Death Eaters, ahem, Aurors until the end of the Earth if need be! He is to stand trial for crimes committed against my person and my organization.'_

"Dangerous Words, Voldemort. Harry Potter, if you are still alive, don't let them catch you!"

The man finished up with the article and let out a bark of laughter that quickly turned into a hacking fit as he inhaled some of the smoke from his cigarette. He placed the paper down on his table as he turned to face his meal.

He could honestly say he'd never seen anything like it before, he couldn't believe that anybody had ever decided that eating some strips of a meat that had a blue-greenish color to them was a good idea. Cautiously prodding one of the strips of meat with his fork, he stabbed it and set about the task of eating.

For the next seven hours, the only events happening in the bar was either the stranger eating his food, taking a pull on one of his cigarettes, or drinking some of his scotch, or some patron or another leaving the bar until it was empty except for the barkeep and the stranger.

"Excuse me, sir." The barkeep said in French. "But, we close in an hour, and the kitchen is going to close in fifteen minutes."

"Is it already that time?" The man said, surprised, in English, his accent unmasking him for an Englander. "Pardon my outburst," he continued in French, "but I would like the dinner special if it wouldn't be too much trouble. That and a glass and pitcher of water."

"At once, sir." The barkeep said. The stranger was English? He though to himself, unusual.

Almost at the very instant the barkeep disappeared into the kitchen to try his hand at cooking whatever he decided the dinner special was going to be, the front door opened and admitted a woman dressed in a long gray hooded cloak and a large amount of snow. Muttering curses under her breath, she caused the snow to vanish like it was never there and walked over to the stranger's table with a purpose in mind.

"So," She said in flawless Russian. "I heard you have a job for me. I usually make it a point to know my employer, so if you could tell me your name, mister…" She let her voice trail off in question.

"Potter." The stranger replied. "Harry Potter. It's nice to finally meet you, Miss Zane." The stranger, now identified as Harry Potter said, as he got out of his chair and offered the woman his hand.

The only noise in the brief pause was the sound of the barkeep dropping the plate of whatever dinner was going to be, the glass, and the pitcher of water. "You're Harry Potter?" He asked after Harry had shaken the woman's hand and had turned to face him.

Harry nodded and the barkeep rushed out of the room after the area where the food, water, glass and plate had crashed had cleared without any help from him.

"So, Miss Zane," Harry said, easing himself back into his chair and lighting up another cigarette. "What did you think of the job offer?"

"In all honesty, Mister Potter," Miss Zane said, removing the hooded cloak and sitting down at the table in a chair opposite Harry. "It's more than generous, which makes me suspicious. I have a feeling that my final destination is going to be England, is this true?"

"I'm glad you find the terms acceptable," Harry said to the brown haired lady in front of him, blatantly ignoring the question.

"You haven't answered the question." Miss Zane pointed out, pointedly not answering _his _question.

"Do you want the truth or a carefully crafted lie?"

"The truth is usually preferable."

"Alright, than the answer is, yes, I'm going to go to England sometime in the next year. Hopefully, I'll have a large enough group of mercenaries such as yourself behind my back to take out Voldemort." He watched as Miss Zane's eyes widened at the mention of the information that could potentially blow the entire operation.

"Why me?" She asked eventually, after the food and water had come, this time with two cups and two sets of silverware.

"Because you're the only person who stayed to the end defended Hermione Granger, like your contract said." Harry said eventually. "That was the most I could've asked for, and my godfather had only let the information slip after we got drunk when we heard the news that Hermione had died, you were only starting out as a mercenary then, but I filed away your name for future use." Harry concluded, he then looked down at his half-finished meal of Grindylow strips. "Do you want the rest of this? I've about had my fill of odd foods to last me another lifetime or two."

"Sure," Miss Zane said, taking the proffered dish and began to serve herself. After she finished it off she looked Harry hard in the eyes for a few moments, before looking down at her hands and opening her mouth. "Your terms are acceptable." She said eventually.

Without a word, Harry slapped two hundred-franc notes on the table, stood up and walked away from the table and making his way to the exit. Opening the door, he walked out of the bar without a backward glance.

**.oOo.**

Lord Voldemort, the Lord and Master of Wizarding England looked up as the knock sounded at his door. "Come." He hissed, his voice sounding decidedly snake-like.

The door opened and a man walked into the office, his dark robes at a stark contrast with the overall brightness of the offices. "Milord." He said in a voice that did not quake with fear at the sight of Lord Voldemort. "I bring urgent news from the detachment of Death Eaters sent to Hogwarts in order to bring it fully under your control."

"Yes." Lord Voldemort said, his voice commanding the man to continue.

"Everybody in the castle except for the Sixth and Seventh Year Slytherins are dead, milord, either murder or suicide. It appears that the your Death Eaters-in-training decided to take matters into their own hands and killed everybody in the castle." The man took in a fortifying breath before continuing. "The reports gets worse, it seems that they didn't stop at just killing them… they butchered the people the killed, especially the Gryfindors, and set their bodies outside the castle suspended by a rope with a sign: 'Blood Traitors, you'll get yours too.'"

Lord Voldemort smiled, it was a smile that was not at all connected to any sort of happiness, it was more the sort that promised pain to anybody who dared cross him. "Release it through the news… speaking of which, bring a team of Death Eaters with you and take the Daily Prophet… call it _The Truth_ or _The Beacon_ or something of the sort." He smiled again, more malice promised. "Regulate everything that is released and then get back here to me, it seems that we have a new use for the Monitoring abilities of the Ministry…"

"At once, milord." The man said, bowing out of the door and exiting into the Ministry proper.

Lord Voldemort began to laugh as the full realization of his power came crashing into him, a malicious laugh that promised pain to anybody daring to ask why he was laughing.

**.oOo.**

The man who had come to Lord Voldemort with the information regarding Hogwarts was a man by the name of Lynch, Roman Lynch. He was a half-blood who had left Hogwarts and entered the world of Accounting, becoming a Chartered Accountant after a few basic math classes and memory wipes. He got in trouble with the Government several years before Voldemort's second rise to power and retreated back to the Wizarding World to regroup and try to pick up some basic skills.

He hadn't counted on Voldemort coming back to life and, when he heard the news –he was in a bar in Knockturn Alley at the time- he immediately made his way to a man who was widely believed to be a Death Eater: Lucius Malfoy. Taking on the public guise of Malfoy's accountant, Lynch wormed his way into the Death Eater infrastructure, doing nothing, yet gaining praise and promotions whenever possible.

Under his careful eye, Malfoy's fortune more than tripled itself in the fifteen years separating the Dark Lord's revival and the present day, making Malfoy's prestige with the Dark Lord more than it would have been otherwise, since the Dark Lord was usually stripped of funds.

Without his guidance, Lynch's feet had taken him to the apparating point at the Ministry and he vanished with a barely audible _pop_ and, less than a second later, appeared in the camp that the Death Eater's had taken for their own. At the height of the Dark Lord's first reign, there had been roughly four hundred and twenty Death Eaters, now there were just barely less than a thousand. Lynch was a man used to dealing with large sums of money, but the sheer amount of Death Eaters caused him to miss his step as he stepped off the raised platform that served as the main egress to the camp.

The camp was not an orderly affair, mainly just a hodgepodge of whatever tents the Death Eaters had managed to acquire and keep. For those of the Upper Crust, the tents bordered on castles or manors, for those who had little or no money it was usually little more than the cloak of a dead man suspended with two broken broomsticks.

However, to make up for the lack of visual organization, the Death Eaters actually were organized. At some point during the war of the past twelve years, Voldemort had figured out that it was his lack of organization that was going to be the death of him and his movement. So, he established rank among the Death Eaters along with Teams of eight Death Eaters, allowing him to deploy a team and let the person in command make the decisions and forcing those under his or her command to follow the orders. After that was fixed, Voldemort had felt that his victory was assured… and it was.

So it was that Lynch found himself walking to the tent that the commander of one of the Death Eater Teams had claimed as his own. Pulling back the flap, Lynch found himself inside a room that looked like it belonged in a manor rather than a tent. "Wright?" He called out, trying to find said person. "Wright, you here?"

"What is it, Lynch?" A gruff voice said from the left-rear corner of the room, as the speaker stepped out of the shadow. He was of average height and build, however, what set him apart from a crowd was how average he looked; he was the sort of man that a person's eyes could just slip right over like a sheet of ice.

"I got new orders from our Lord," Lynch said. "We're to appropriate the _Daily Prophet_, claim it as our own, and create our own newspaper there. Think your team's up for it?"

"I'm down two people." Wright pointed out, his voice betraying nothing that could be used against him. "That's a whole quarter of my combat power."

"That's also two people less on the Board of Directors." Lynch pointed out, appealing to the man's greed. "That's more money and prophet for you, me, and the survivors."

"Good point." The commander said, nodding his head. He then flicked his wrist, forcing his wand to drop into his hand from the sheath he had on his forearm, and gave it a flick, casting some spell that Lynch assumed served as a notice for the team members. "It should only be a few minutes, Lynch." The commander said after that was done.

After only two minutes, the flap to the tent was thrown open and five Death Eaters walked into the tent, their distinctive death's head masks off, exposing their faces. The team was composed of four males (Including the commander) and two females, and all five looked they could take on any amount of skilled Witches and Wizards on their own, much less with backup.

Lynch nodded approvingly as he looked at the five newcomers, "better than the usual dregs, Wright." He said, "it's a wonder the Dark Lord allowed them to join."

A sharp intake of breath followed this statement, especially on the part of Wright.

"You dare speak of the Dark Lord's loyal followers like that, Lynch?" He finally said after a pained silence.

"Yes." Lynch responded. "If you look at the majority of Death Eaters in the Dark Lord's employ today, most are simply concerned about how to deal the most pain possible with the least expenditure of energy. They're not soldiers, they're terrorists who don't even have a brain and follow orders mindlessly."

After a strained minute of silence, the members of the team began to smile in realization of what Lynch was saying: _They_ were the soldiers of the Dark Lord, _they_ were good, _they_ could actually think.

"Lynch," one of the females in the team, the auburn haired one, said. "You've got our attention, now what do you want us to do?"

Roman Lynch was not a man given to smiling, but he allowed himself a cold smile that even the Dark Lord himself would be hard pressed to equal. "We're going to take over the _Daily Prophet_ and put our own puppet newspaper in place of it, with us as the Board of Directors."

All of the assembled smiled in anticipation.

**.oOo.**

The plan was simple, as all good plans were, but so simple that it bordered on inexcusable arrogance. The plan was simply to break open the front door at the _Daily Prophet_ and come in with wands blazing until the workers surrendered.

Of course, this assumed that there was resistance from the inside, which there most assuredly was.

The plan, as it was, broke the old maxim of no plan survives first contact with the enemy, mainly because there were absolutely no specifics to the plan, just simple guidelines.

**.oOo.**

The stranger walked back into the _Phoenix Nest_ pub; his black robes having aged little since his last visit. He walked with a slight limp and his robes weren't as whole as they were last time, having been ripped in places as though a dagger had stabbed them.

He walked into the bar and chose the exact same table he had chosen last time and sat down in the table in the exact same manner. "One bottle of scotch and a glass." He said, in near the exact same manner as he had last time he was there. "And throw in a newspaper if you can."

"Yes, sir." The barkeep, a different fellow than last time, said in flawless French as he scurried about the bar grabbing the bottle, glass and newspaper.

"Thank you." The stranger responded, lighting his cigarette with no visible means and reaching for the bottle of scotch to pour himself a glass.

It was a good thing that he hadn't poured himself a glass of scotch to drink as he read the newspaper, since the front page was boldly emblazoned with the heading: _Dark Lord Celebrates Rule_.

**Dark Lord Celebrates Rule**

_"The Dark Lord celebrated his ascendancy to power today by crushing the last vestiges of resistance left in England. A Death Eater team was sent to Hogwarts –a private wizarding school in Scotland- and reports have reached this reporter's ear of all but the Sixth and Seventh years Slytherins –one of the four houses of Hogwarts, once notorious for creating more Dark Witches and Wizards than the other three combined._

_"Furthermore, the _Daily Prophet_ is no longer named as such, in a hostile take over Roman Lynch, Alexander Wright, Charles Rutger, Xavier Peterson, Katherine Wagner, and Beatrice Rhodes, all in the employ of the Dark Lord. They have renamed the _Daily Prophet_ the _Truth. _In mockery of this name, they ran a story that concluded that it was impossible for Muggle-borns to get magic and so thus it was stolen. Now, it is a recorded impossibility to steal magic, but it appears that most of Wizarding England has bought into this lie with all the fervor of the newly converted._

_"'Today also marks an important day for our Lord.' An editorial in the _Truth_ ran. 'It is the tenth anniversary of the death of Hermione J. Granger, a mudblood who was in fierce opposition to the Dark Lord.' The rest of the editorial runs along the same vein, lauding the Dark Lord and pure-bloods whilst beating the war-drum of oppression of Muggl-borns. It appears that England, once a bastion of tolerance in Europe, is now a hotbed of hate and persecution._

_"In recognition of this, the International Confederation of Wizards, at the urging of the Ambassador from the United States of America, has barred England from entering into negotiations with member countries. Our ambassador is a braver man than most, forwarding the proposal, the rest of the countries involved in the International Confederation of Wizards fell right in line once they grasped the idea of what was going on._

"'With a madman like Lord Voldemort in control' an unnamed spokesperson from the Department of State (Magical) said. 'England is certain to collapse, both economically and in the most literal sense possible.' No comment has been given from the English Embassy, which was closed down moments after we arrived to see if they had any response. This certainly brings the old Chinese greeting to mind: 'May you live in interesting times' interesting times indeed."

The stranger put the paper down and drained his cup of scotch before pouring himself a second one and draining it like he did the first one. He reached into his robes before pulling out a letter and reading it like a convicted man would his stay of execution order.

After assuring himself that the contents of the letter hadn't changed, he placed it in the ashtray along with his cigarette and watched it burn. He sighed to himself briefly before turning back to matters at hand, and ordered lunch from the barkeep, who was only too happy to give him something that Harry was sure was barely cooked snails.

**.oOo.**

"Do you have the schedule?" A whispered voice cut across the silence of the back alley of Paris.

"Do you have the money?" Another whisper said by way of answering. "I'm not giving you the schedule unless I get my money, it has to be worth my time if I'm going to give you a schedule."

"I have all the money and more." The voice promised in a voice that betrayed how nervous the voice's owner was. "I'll give it to you in exchange for the schedule."

"Let me see the money." This voice was insistent, untrusting. "I don't trust it when people just say I have it, gimme."

"Here." Out of nowhere, a figure dressed in long black hooded robes stepped into the back alley, his poise proclaiming that he'd rather be anywhere but here. He then produced a sack and opened it to show to the alley.

"Those are Galleons." The other voice cut. "Those are no good here, nobody accepts English currency, give me real money, not worthless money."

The figure stumbled slightly even though he hadn't moved a step. "I cannot do that," he said. "My lord does not convert his currency into other, less noble, currency."

"You are English?" The voice asked. When the other man nodded he stepped into the visible light.

He was wearing a pale gray hooded robe that his face in shadows and allowed him to move with near complete anonymity in a crowd if one didn't notice a cloaked figure walking around. His hands were in leather gauntlets and they appeared to be well used. "Tell me, what's your name?"

"Malfoy." The man responded with all the disdain that he could manage. "I imagine that you're trying to impress me with the cloak and gauntlets?"

"No, mister Malfoy." The man said. "I'm trying to give you as little visual clues as possible. Is your _master_ well." Somehow the man made the word seem like an insult.

"He is well." Malfoy responded. "Have I met you before?"

"Yes." The man responded, "but you've likely forgotten it by now. However, I never forgot, since, you see, you're one of those responsible for getting me kicked out of England in the first place, some fourteen years ago."

"Potter?" Malfoy spat. "Why don't you just die?"

"Because I fucking hate your master and intend to see him removed from my country as soon as possible." 'Potter' spat right back at Malfoy. "But, you won't be available to tell your master that. Tell me, Malfoy, how does it feel to know a Dog has more free will than you?"

Malfoy opened his mouth to answer, but found that his throat was suddenly filled. A fire-like pain exploded out of the back of his mouth and the roof of his mouth as he realized that he couldn't close his mouth, there was something in the way, and it has pierced his throat. He reached and pulled out whatever it was, and got a look at it. A dagger…

…The lights were so close to him…

… so close…

…so…close…

…so…

…

Potter kicked the corpse and then turned and fled the alleyway, it would not do for the Police to find him here with the corpse.

**A/N:** _I'm sorry for the slow update, but it wasn't until this weekend that I got to typing. As for the Nacendent, it's just a word I made up that means associated with Magic, it's not a real word, I just wanted the team name to read SNAFU._

_Thanks for reading,_

_Eldar_


	3. Chapter Two

Under The Viper By: Eldar

**Harry Potter: Hero or Villain? Savior or Conqueror?**

**By:**_ Diana Ross_

"Harry Potter has been a character that has attracted our attentions over past twelve years, ever since the Dark Lord Voldemort declared his return from the dead in England. Since the declaration, said Dark Lord has taken every available moment to drive the point home that Harry Potter is wanted in England for the Misuse of Underage Magic, as well as the murder of one Quineas Quirrel, ex-Defense Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

_"But, nobody really knows anything about Harry Potter. Fact: He has messy black hair that has been described as impossible to tame. Fact: He has a lightning-bolt scar on his forehead, the only evidence to attest that the Dark Lord Voldemort did indeed attempt to kill him on October Thirty-first. Fact: He was exiled from England._

_"However, that's all we really _know_ about Harry Potter, we don't know anything about him. Is it true that he is as horrible as the Dark Lord Voldemort claims? While the Dark Lord is very unpopular over here in America, it isn't good logic to assume that the Enemy of my Enemy is my friend. It has oft been speculated that there is a prophecy connecting Harry Potter and the Dark Lord Voldemort, however recent findings from our sources within the new English Ministry of Magic have disproved that theory. Maybe, just maybe, the Dark Lord Voldemort wanted to kill Harry Potter because he was perceived as the more powerful Dark Magic sorcerer in comparison to the Dark Lord. As little as anyone wants to see good in a creature as despicable as the Dark Lord Voldemort, maybe, just maybe, it is true._

_"However, what if Harry Potter is truly the Hero that he's made out to be by the tales coming from the Refuges that flooded Ellis Island until a decade ago? Everybody who was there proclaimed that Harry Potter was their Savior and that they had done something incredibly stupid._

_"In any event, our sources currently put Harry Potter in France, recruiting an army of Hired Wands to take back his homeland. Or is he? Could it be that the Dark Lord Potter is just around the corner? Could it be that Harry Potter is _not_ going to reconquer England, but, instead, he is the power-hungry Wizard that the English Ministry of Magic has been calling him until their fall last year?_

"In any case, it is unknown if Harry Potter is a Hero or a Villain, a Savior or a Conqueror."

Chapter Two One Year Later

It was always dark nowadays. Rachel Sampson looked up anxiously as the nearby torch flickered with the wind, ever since the Street lamps had been forever disabled, torches had been the only source of light. In fact, for the past year, there had been no use of electricity all across the island as far as Sampson knew, but she hadn't been able to get in contact with anybody she knew who lived in northern Scotland. However, it stood to reason that it would remain the same there.

The problems all started a year ago, when the Lestrange Government took power in a surprise election. After the Lestrange Government took power, the Prime Minister passed an edict for all electricity to be permanently turned off, though it was rumored that the note said Elek-tris-iti instead of electricity. When Lestrange took power a year ago he'd also gotten Parliament to pass a law that made it illegal for Parliament to convene and to pass any laws, excluding the law that gave it that power, or, rather, lack of power. Sampson was still unsure what mixture of blackmail, threats, and promises he'd had to have made in order to get the law to pass through both the House of Commons and the House of Lords with little complaint from the MP's serving, but he had rammed the bill through.

Torches! She'd had it with the bloody torches! No other civilized country in the twenty-first century used torches for their main source of lighting! None! And, yet, here was England, one of the most advanced countries in the world, using torches as their main source of lighting, no, not main _only_.

As a girl, she'd read books about the Middle Ages and she'd always thought that it really couldn't have been as bad as the authors had described… well, now she knew. It seemed that items in Museums that specialized in the late-Middle Ages were now considered high-tech. Not only that, but it _was_ as bad as all the accurate history books said it was.

Sampson's body suddenly stiffened of its own accord; did she hear something? No, it must've been a snake or-

No sooner had she completed the thought then her world became black all at once.

**.oOo.**

He really hated portkeys, that much was the same as it was last time he'd used them. It didn't help that there were about fifty other's using the same portkey as he was, nor did it help that he really didn't trust any one of them even as far as he could throw them. But, they were the only help he could find that didn't have any official strings attached it, after all if he accepted help from the French, it meant that England would be forced to accept some deal from France… And he knew how that would turn out.

Miss Zane –she still refused to reveal her first name- was the only one in the group he trusted, and then that was only by a thin string. As such, he'd placed her as his second-in-command, as well as the mistress of the payroll, a position of no small importance in a mercenary army… well, mercenary band more like.

He looked over his shoulder as he landed –thankfully the streets were lit only by torch light- and cursed when he noticed a woman running away. "Seth," he called. "Kill her." He said it in a voice that was appropriately cold and without a quiver that could've betrayed how _sick_ he felt at giving the order, but he couldn't leave witnesses and he didn't have the resources to capture and hold her…

The Mercenary he called upon nodded and drew his wand out. Taking careful aim –as careful aim as was possible with a wand at thirty meters- he simply relaxed as the jet of green light flew out of his wand and hit the woman in the back. He followed up the action by conjuring some magical flames and letting them burn the body beyond any recognition. A final slashing motion with the wand destroyed her mouth, rendering any dental examinations impossible.

With the body taken care of –god, he hated thinking in these fucking sterile terms- Harry turned away from the scene without raising an eyebrow and looking down the torch lit street…

The _torch lit_ street?

_What the fuck?_

Harry turned to look at one of the torches that lined the streets and was mildly disturbed. "I have got to start reading the _Truth_ now." He muttered to himself, realizing just how out of touch he was with the recent history of his homeland. Moving away from the torches, he turned to look at the rest of the assembled army.

Army. Somehow he didn't feel that the word was the best descriptor he could find to use for the motley array that he'd managed to recruit from all over the world. There were people in his 'army' that he couldn't place their accents –Midwestern United States they claimed, but he didn't believe any accent could be so flat- nor did he knew if all of them spoke English! But, semantics aside, it did its job, the 'army', so they got paid, well.

"First order of business." Harry said, "we have to set up an HQ somewhere, I'm going to guess that somewhere in Diagon Alley would work well." He refrained, barely, from shrugging, remembering just in time that while they would work for him because he paid them, their respect would make them work harder and showing indecisiveness was a sure way to lose it.

His eyes did a quick scan of the area before deciding that the area was as safe as it was going to get. "Let's move out." He said, clapping his hands to get all of the mercenaries' attention.

**.oOo.**

Roman Lynch's life following his ascension to the Board of Directors of the _Truth_ had been a good one. He'd never found himself wanting for Galleons, nor women, and his home was a particularly fetching apartment in Diagon Alley. Everybody had thought him crazy when he had laid down the funds for the house, after all what self-respecting Death Eater would live in something so obviously of muggle origin?

However, he'd laid down so many different spells and wards in the house that it was hardly recognizable from the original depilated apartment he'd purchased almost a year ago. Most recognizable among the spells he'd laid down was an expansion charm that radically raised the interior area of the apartment without affecting the outer dimensions a millimeter! And the wards he'd laid down were rather impressive if he said so himself, providing a defense so simple that it couldn't be subverted –simply every body who entered the apartment had to be 'keyed' to the wards. While it severely limited his chances to bring any of the women his position afforded him home, he felt that the safety provided by the wards was far more important than any one night stand, to steal the muggle term.

Not that he cared anything about muggles, that is.

His home, though, didn't give him as nice a view of the outside world as he would've liked, and so it was that he was out walking when he first heard the spell fire. He'd had to pause and think for a moment in order to make sure that what he'd heard had been spell fire and not his mind playing tricks on him, it had been far too long since he'd been involved in combat of any kind. But, once he'd confirmed the fact, his wand leapt to his hand like it had a mind of its own.

He cautiously moved along the wall that ran along the street and paused several times following noises that he was confident were caused by him. After several minutes of this, he finally arrived where he was pretty sure that the spellfire had came from, but nobody was there.

Looking around and assuring himself of the fact, Lynch than sat down on the… curb? And let his mind wander –he had found that he had done the best of his thinking for the Dark Lord in this manner. After a few minutes of this, Lynch was unable to divine where the mysterious assailants had disappeared off to and he stood up.

Then it hit him full force.

The acrid smell of burnt flesh, skin and hair.

Reluctantly following his nose, Lynch found the charred corpse of a young woman. Running his eye over her, Lynch could guess that she was in her late-thirties to early-forties, but that's all he could guess about the corpse aside from her sex, which was obviously female. Keeling down on the balls of his feet, Lynch looked closely at the mouth of the corpse, and then reached his hand in and broke off a tooth-fragment.

While it wouldn't work as well as a strand of hair for a polyjuice potion. If only so he could rest his mind as to if she was a muggle or witch. If she was a muggle than it would let him set his mind at ease, Harry Potter wasn't back. If she was a witch than it would mean that Harry Potter could be back, after all he wouldn't kill a defenseless muggle. That was what Death Eaters did and Potter was 'better' than Death Eaters.

Right?

**.oOo.**

Ron ducked into the dining room in Headquarters, a paper was carried in the crook of his arm and a disgusted expression graced his face. He walked over to the nearest chair and veritably collapsed into it, pulling out the paper he placed it on the table with the front page up for all to see.

**Potter Guilty!** Read the headline, not that it was news to anybody. The _Truth_ had ran several stories in the same vein since it's inception. No, beating the war drum against Harry was something that had been going on for nearly a year now.

All things considered, though, Ron almost preferred the way that the _Daily Prophet_ had been after Harry, dark hints and the Ministry's "He's an Exile, can't touch him!" approach. It made for better reading anyway.

Though, he had to admit that the obituaries were usually funny to read, if only because he knew most everybody who seemed to fill up the area and each one usually had an obituary that said absolutely nothing while seeming sorrowful and reverent. He had to hand it to the _Truth_ they did have good writers.

He looked sorrowfully down at the floor as the names started marching past in his head. _Dean Thomas: Deceased; Neville Longbottom: Captured; Seamus Finnegan: Deceased…_ The list was endless, and it always ended with the same person, _Hermione Granger: Deceased_.

He had to put it in such sterile terms, if only to help keep the strength to keep going on, if he started admitting that they were dead and not deceased… well, it was a fiction that worked.

Somebody passed him a cup of coffee and he thanked him or her –he didn't know- as he brought it up to sip, gratifying his need to do _something_. He didn't care if he spent his days waging war on the building that had become both his home and his working place for the past year and a half. That war, no matter how long it had been since it first started in his Fifth year Summer, would at least give him something other to do than to look at what the world outside was like and how slim their chances of survival were.

That and Hermione was dead. He had failed Harry, like so many things in life he had _failed!_

Going through school had been tough without his best mate. Not only because he didn't have anybody that he could talk to without any inhibitions, but the looks he'd received from people for the two years between Harry's Exile and Voldemort's Proclamation had been difficult to endure.

Sure, Hermione had been a sympathetic ear he'd been able to talk to –and sometimes more- but she wasn't Harry. He'd been able to speak with Harry over a lot of things in life: girls; how to cheat without getting caught; chess, those sorts of things. But, without a best mate that you could talk to easily and with a mother that wouldn't let you do anything on your own, he wasn't able to do much of anything.

"Ron." A voice said from the table, drawing him out of his thoughts.

"Yes?" Ron asked tiredly, looking up to see who was talking.

It was an equally tired looking Remus Lupin. "I've got a lead on Harry's whereabouts, it came from one of my… contacts within the Death Eaters." Lupin was notoriously tight-lipped about his network of spies throughout England, ever since one of his agents had been tortured to death two years ago he'd become –if at all possible- even more tightlipped about them.

"Oh?" Ron said. "Where?"

"My contact received a message from some French sympathizers who saw Harry leave with a rather sizeable bunch of mercenaries this morning. If you could, it has been suggested that you try to make contact with Harry today or tomorrow, he knows you and trusts you… and, well, the rest of the Order isn't exactly fired up about Harry."

Ron nodded, Harry had been a subject on which no debate was allowed within the Order, basically they had decided to never talk about him. Ever.

"I'll get on that, Remus." Ron was no longer shocked by the familiarity with which he addressed Lupin; he'd gotten over that within a year of Voldemort's Proclamation. "If you could figure out a general location for wherever he's setting up his Headquarters?"

Lupin nodded. "I'll see if one of my contacts can't get a look at the book of recent deaths from within the Ranks of Death Eaters. Although, I should warn you, Harry's smart enough that he would move bodies, Death Eaters aren't dumb. However, it _does_ provide a starting point…"

"Great."

**.oOo.**

Harry in Diagon Alley was repeating that sentiment, though in a much more sarcastic manner. "Just fucking great." He cursed, looking at the mass of people congregating in the alley, most were waiting by Gringott's, though other's were also going by the stores.

Looking over the crowd and how they moved, Harry eventually reached a decision. "Alright." He said. "Everybody, start moving around like you don't know each other and make your way to Knockturn Alley, we'll try to set up our Base of Operations there."

Harry flipped up his cloak's hood and smiled as his face slid into shadow. While it wasn't the perfect disguise, it would fool anyone who was performing a cursory search. He then slipped into a group of people who were headed into Diagon Alley.

"-I want the Firebolt!"

"-Get used to it-"

"-Very funny-"

"-Hey!"

He could only catch snippets of conversations, and it frustrated him to almost no end to only catch one word out of ten, but he was relieved that the words he understood were enough to convince himself that he wasn't among Death Eaters. As the group walked up the Alley, Harry noticed the sign of Knockturn was missing and the alley that branched off was made up of charred stone, something that he had previously thought impossible.

Getting away from the group, he stole into the remnants of Knockturn Alley and tried to find a suitable place to set up shop.

"Knut for the baby? Knut for the baby?"

A desperate woman holding a baby had cornered him and was holding out a grimy hand while she held an equally dirty baby in the other hand. Harry's face quickly ran the gamut of sadness to anger and everything in between as he brusquely pushed past the begging mother.

Schooling his face back into a neutral expression, Harry stalked down the main route of Knockturn Alley before ducking into one of the smaller, side alleys that infected the whole of Knockturn Alley. Looking up, Harry's face broke into a grin as he noticed that he was standing in front of an apartment building that looked nice, or, rather, less run down and ragged than the other apartments in the area. Looking at the door, Harry noticed a sign hanging by only a pin on its leftmost corner that said:

_**Startlight Apartments is Closed!**_

_**We Regret the Inconvenience and Heartily Suggest our Competitors!**_

Muttering to himself about how crazy the Wizarding world was, Harry tried the knob, but jerked back his hand when the knob tried to bite him. Apparently, someone had charmed the knob to assume the shape of a snake with the instinct to bite whomever tried to open it. "_Finite_," Harry said waving his right hand over the knob and then he tried it again.

Opening the door, the knob didn't bite him this time, Harry stepped into the old _Starlight_ apartments and ran a critical eye over the entrance. It appeared to be in good condition, none of the chairs that lined the hall were broken and it looked like one would expect a regular apartment complex in the muggle world to look like.

"The light charms are still active, odd." Harry said to himself after noting that the room wasn't as dark as it should've been.

"It really isn't that odd, they don't take up that much power." A female voice said from behind him. Harry turned on his heal with his wand already half-drawn and a spell half-said.

"Godammit!" He half-yelled after noticing that it was Miss Zane of his Mercenary group. "Don't do that to me!"

"I sincerely apologize." Miss Zane said, sarcasm dripping from her every word. "If I had known that you had a weak heart I wouldn't have signed on to do this job and I most certainly wouldn't have collected the rest of the group."

"Yeah, sure." Harry said, an equal amount of sarcasm dripping from his words. "Bring them in quickly, I want to avoid attracting as much attention as possible."

"Got it." With a nod, Miss Zane was out the door and in less than a heartbeat back in the apartment complex.

"Alright people." Harry said, clapping loudly to attract the group's attention. "This is now our base of operations. You all take a room and that's your quarters for the duration of your employment with me." Harry paused to collect his thoughts. "A sheet of paper is being passed around along with a pen, when the two reach you write down your name along with the apartment number you want."

With a quick wave of his hand Harry conjured up both items as well as an illusion that displayed all the room numbers in the apartment complex. Harry then walked to the back of the room and sat down in a chair that had apparently been left over from whenever the owners of the apartments had abandoned it and watched _his_ 'army' choose their billets for the night.

**.oOo.**

Severus Snape was not a man whom life had came easily for, it had been almost eleven years since he'd publicly chosen sides in the coming conflict. Eleven years since Voldemort's Proclamation, and, most importantly, eleven years since he'd killed Headmaster Dumbledore in his office with several well-placed Reductor curses.

In the intervening years, his fortunes had risen and fallen in the Death Eater community. A decade ago he'd been the obvious choice as the Dark Lord's second in command, but, not two years ago, his fortunes had reversed course as the Death Eaters had discovered his and Narcissa's affair several years earlier.

Since then, he'd been quietly working on any jobs that the Dark Lord had decided to throw his way and had been given his fifteen minutes of fame several times before fading back into the background again. It was only this most recent assignment that had been any indication to him that the Dark Lord still considered him his most Faithful –or at least intelligent- Death Eater: he was to deduce the base of operations for Potter and his merry band of mercenaries.

It also helped that since the death of Lucius Malfoy a year prior, the Dark Lord had given him the "honor" of being his spymaster. Somehow, he had the feeling that it was more a snide joke at his 'status' during the build up to the war than any real declaration of trust in his abilities.

Now, if only his spies in Potter's 'army' would report back to him…

**.oOo.**

Harry sat in his room at stared idly at the sphere attached to a simple silver chain, he didn't know much about storing memories but he _did_ have a sudden inspiration… Gripping his wand, he placed the tip to the sphere and said in as calm a voice as he could muster "the time is right."

The sphere had always glowed with an inner light for as long as he had had the sphere, almost for fifteen years now… but, never in this time had he ever attempted anything like what he had just done. And, the results were plain to see: the sphere was starting to glow more and more until a white light seemed to overtake the room, and overpowered Harry's vision.

**.oOo.**

"Hello, Harry." A voice that Harry had not heard in a long time said.

"Albus!" Harry cried as he stood up quickly. "I take it that this is a memory of some sort?"

"No, Harry." Now that his eyes had better adjusted Harry could see the vague outline of Albus Dumbledore against the harsh white light that seemed to come from everywhere. "This is something… more. Think of me as… the echo of Albus Dumbledore." The outline was becoming more and more distinct with each passing moment. "I know everything that Albus Dumbledore knew up to the moment of his death, but I don't have any true memories of him, or me," the echo said with a small smile. "Whenever I try thinking back to something I did, I just get a description of what it was, never a true memory."

Harry just stared at the echo with a look akin to shock on his face. "What can you tell me about why you were given to me?" He finally managed to ask after opening and closing his mouth ineffectually for several minutes.

"I know that I am here to tell you the prophecy as well as anything else you want to know." The echo shrugged. "But, aside from that, I don't really know about any other plans Albus might have had for me… Though I _do_ seem to have a rather large amount of Magical Energy available for my use."

"Prophecy?" Harry asked, filing away the bit about magical energy for later.

"Ah, yes. That." The echo said, his voice changing as he spoke until it resembled Sibyll Trelawney's. "_The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches…Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have the power the Dark Lord knows not…and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives…The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies…" _Then, abruptly, the echo's voice changed back to Albus's. "That is as much about this prophecy I know, I also know that Albus's only idea about your special power was that it was Love." The echo shrugged as if it were helpless.

Harry snorted derisively at that. "Love?" Harry snorted again. "Love? What good would love do me? Am I supposed to hug Voldemort to death? Because that is way beyond the line I've drawn of what I'm going to do."

"Oh, and I suppose that you believe killing him to be more tasteful?" The Albus-Echo said in a voice that showed that he definitely shared the real Albus Dumbledore's views on killing and morality.

"It is vastly more tasteful to me." Harry replied before turning his mind back to the Echo's mention of Magical Energy. "Anyway, enough about how I view the world, what can you tell me about your stores of Magical Energy?"

The Echo sighed slightly. "I get the feeling that Albus didn't want you to know that." It said before continuing. "However, I am supposed to help you in anyway possible… I hold all the Magical Energy that Albus Dumbledore had siphoned off during the period between the Defeat of Grindlewald and the Rise of Voldemort, and then between the First Defeat of Voldemort and Albus's death." The Echo paused before waiting for the inevitable question.

"Who killed Dumbledore, and how?" Harry asked quietly, prompting the Echo.

"It would be easier if I showed you," the Echo replied. "It is the only memory I have…"

_Albus Dumbledore was sitting as his desk looking at a map of Hogwarts not unlike the Marauder's Map, but it was to the Marauder's Map as the sun was to a small candle. It showed every room of the castle, any magical artifacts in the castle as well as any people that were in the castle. Noticing that Severus Snape was on his way to see him, Dumbledore waved his hand over the map and settled back into the chair that the second Headmaster of the School had commissioned._

_"Yes, Severus?" Albus asked with just the right note of curiosity in his voice. "Is there something you want? A transfer for several of the First-Year Hufflepuffs perchance?"_

_Severus just looked at the Headmaster with a pained expression on his face. "_Legilmens._" He intoned softly, pointing his wand at the Headmaster._

_Albus's Mindscape was far more developed that it had any right to be, however it had fallen into old cliches and assumed the form of a castle with a moat and drawbridge. Severus Snape walked up to the edge of the moat nearest the drawbridge and waited to be challenged._

_"Who goes there?" A voice rang out._

_" 'Tis I, Severus Snape." Snape called out, praying that the Headmaster hadn't made him a foe already._

_"What's the password?"_

_"In for a penny, in for a pound." Snape replied._

_He was gratified to see the drawbridge lower and he walked over to it. Crossing the moat, Snape opened the portcullis with a key he fished from his robes and he stole inside the castle. Looking around quickly, Snape stole into the room right across the castle courtyard._

_Inset in the stone floor, there was a trap door that one could see only if they looked hard enough or knew it was there. In Serverus's case, he knew it was there, having used this passageway often. Opening it, he jumped down and landed on a soft material._

_"_Lumos Maxima_," Severus muttered and a harsh bright light eruptedo out of his wand, causing the plant, now identified as Devil's Snare, to wilt away. Snape then walked into the next room, and was greeted with the sight of a mirror set in the center of the room._

_"Bloody simplistic idiot." Snape muttered as he drew his wand. "_Reducto, reducto, reducto_." After firing the three curses, he mentally cut his connection to the headmaster and found himself outside the Mindscape and back in his body._

_'_Reducto_,' he thought with his wand pointed at the Headmaster's head and he flinched as the remnants of his head were sprayed all around the room, coating Snape in a layer of blood and brains._

_"_Scrougify_," he said with his wand pointed at himself and the blood and brains vanished. He then walked over to the fireplace and stole some Floo Powder. "Malfoy Manor!" He shouted as he tossed the powder in and vanished in the fireplace._

"That is what happened." The Echo said as the memory faded. Suddenly the Echo went stiff and it's eyes widened almost comically. "There's somebody in your room ready to kill you." The Echo then pushed Harry with more force than seemed possible, sending him out of the Echo-field and back into his own body…

End Chapter 2

A/N: Yep, I'm not dead… yet… just overstressed with High School and it's classes. But, I decided that this was as good a place as any to end this chapter. Hopefully it won't take as long to get Chapter Three written and posted… however unlikely.


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